Courting Miss Adelaide. Janet Dean
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way of life.
By noon all the children had been spoken for. The actual selection of the orphans would take place in two weeks on the day of distribution. The four men shook hands, relieved they’d finished their job, at least for now. After the distribution, the committee had agreed to keep an eye on the children and their guardians as best they could.
A fearsome responsibility.
Outside the courthouse the men dispersed. Charles pulled his collar up around his neck and dashed to the paper in the pounding rain, splattering puddles with every footfall. Ducking into the doorway of The Ledger, he removed his hat, dumping water on his shoes, his spirits as damp as his feet.
His gaze shifted across the street to the CLOSED sign in the window of Miss Crum’s millinery shop. In the months he’d been here, he’d never seen the shop closed on a Saturday.
As he opened the door to the paper, he couldn’t help wondering what Adelaide Crum was doing right at this moment, after four men had dashed her hopes as surely as the sudden storm had wiped out the sun.
Chapter Two
Adelaide woke with a start, bolting upright in bed. Something important was to take place today. Then the memory hit and she sank against the pillows. The children would arrive today.
For her, another ordinary day; for twenty-eight couples, this day had blessed them with a child.
The past two weeks, she had relived the meeting with the committee numerous times, trying to see how she could have convinced them. Wasted thoughts. Wasted hopes. Wasted tears.
She’d been certain God approved of her desire to rear a child, yet the committee had turned her down. Could she have been wrong? Didn’t God want her to mother an orphan? If not, why?
I’d be a good mother. I’d never be like Mama—crabby, critical, always taking the pleasure out of everything.
After a decade of caring for her mother and running the shop, at first her mother’s death had been a relief. The admission put a knot in Adelaide’s stomach, and she said a quick prayer of repentance.
Shaking off her dark thoughts, Adelaide held up her left thumb. “I’m thankful, God, for a thriving business.” Lifting her index finger, she continued, “I’m thankful for these comfortable rooms that give me shelter.” Then, “Thank you, Lord, for good friends.” Touching each finger in turn, she found, as always, many things for which to give thanks.
But today, it wasn’t enough.
She climbed out of bed and shoved up the window. The clatter of wheels, a barking dog and a vendor’s shout brought life into the room. She walked to the dresser mirror and picked up her brush. In her reflection, she found no ravages of age, no sign of crow’s-feet. Her nose was clearly too long, but, all in all, a nice enough face.
Nice enough for a handsome man like Mr. Graves to admire?
Adelaide blinked. Where had that thought come from?
She laid down the brush and leaned toward the mirror, then crossed her eyes. If you don’t stop that, Adelaide, your eyes will get stuck there. Recalling her mother’s warning, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Feeling better, she dressed, then hurried to the kitchen and made coffee. As she sipped the hot brew, her gaze traveled the room, pleased with the soft blue walls above the white wainscoting. Blue-and-white checked curtains, crisp with starch, hung at the window over the sink. This would be a cozy place for a child to have breakfast. The oak pedestal table circled with four pressed-back chairs, plenty of seating for a family.
Neither a crumb littered the floor nor did a speck of dust mar the table. She sighed. All too aware, she lived in the perfect, uncluttered home of a childless woman.
Enough of self-pity. Time to open her shop. Downstairs, she flipped the sign in the window and sat down to mend a torn seam when the bell jingled.
Sally Bender, dressed in drab green with her gray hair stuffed beneath a faded blue bonnet, tromped into the shop. “Land sakes, Adelaide! Are you buried alive under all these hats?” Before Adelaide could answer, Sally went on, “It’s high time you got out your frame so we can finish that quilt.”
Adelaide’s mother’s declining health had ended the quilting bees. “Good morning to you, too, Sally,” Adelaide said with a teasing grin.
“Oh, good morning.” Sally smiled sheepishly, but then parked fisted hands on her hips. “You know I’m right. It’s not good to mope like this.”
“I’m sewing, not moping.”
“You can’t fool me, Adelaide Crum. You’re hiding out here. The ‘Snip and Sew’ quilters haven’t met in months. Why, the church auction will come and go before we finish that quilt.” A spark flared in Sally’s eyes. “Is it man trouble?”
“No, just work.”
“Then start having some. Ask Horace Smith to the church picnic. Give me something to think about besides this unseasonable heat.”
Old enough to be her father, the town’s mortician looked barely more alive than his clientele. “If you’re relying on me for excitement, you’ll expire from a bad case of monotony.” She chuckled. “No doubt Horace would thank me for the business.”
Sally poked her arm. “Now you sound more like yourself.”
Putting aside her sewing, Adelaide rose. “I’ll set up the frame. We can start a week from Monday at ten o’clock.”
“Good. On the way home, I’ll stop and tell the others.” She drew Adelaide into a hug. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
Sally spun out like a whirlwind. Adelaide whispered thanks for a caring friend.
Adelaide kept busy, but the morning dragged. Unable to concentrate, she had to rip out rows of stitches in Mrs. Willowby’s bolero jacket and jabbed herself twice with the needle. She laid the garment aside, then stuck the pricked finger in her mouth as she ambled over to the window.
The street was exceptionally busy, even for a Saturday. No doubt twenty-eight of these conveyances held those fortunate couples who’d been given a child.
What if an unexpected child had ridden the train? Maybe I’m supposed to be at the distribution, taking an opportunity God provided.
Adelaide whipped off her apron and raced upstairs for her hat and gloves.
Charles walked the few blocks to The Ledger, his stride brisk. Under his hat perspiration already beaded his forehead. He neared Whitehall’s Café and the aroma of strong coffee wafted through an open window, tempting him. Up ahead, a group of people huddled, heads bent, talking, unusual for an early Saturday morning. Coffee could wait.
As Charles neared the paper, his reporter came running from the opposite direction, his lanky legs skidding to a halt in front of him. “Mr. Graves, Sarah Hartman hung herself from a rafter in her barn!”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Nothing except she’s an old lady who lived on a farm outside of town. Must’ve gone daft. Her daughter found her this morning.”
“Too bad,” Charles said without a trace of feeling. Long ago, journalism had taught him to distance himself from tragedy, to look at events as part of the job, not troubles affecting people’s lives. Otherwise, every death would have him bawling like a baby. Though, upon occasion, the sum of all those tragedies circled over his head like buzzards converging on the kill, disturbing his sleep.
“Did the sheriff say it looked like suicide, or the town gossips?”
James thrust out his chin, annoyance etching his brow. “The sheriff did. He found a crate kicked over beneath the body.”
Charles nodded his approval. “Good work.